Hearts of Iron: Red World
by theflammablefiredragon
Summary: The United States has lost the Cold War. Russia stands victorious, ruling over its Communist world order. But not all went to plan. The Remnants still kick, and an American soldier has been displaced from a world where the US was victorious. Now, the Eagle has been fully reawakened. It will not rest until America is one and indivisible. It will not rest until it has its revenge.
1. Prologue

**Several miles outside Bluffton, Ohio**

 **10:30 PM**

 **December 22, 2010**

* * *

Northwest Ohio could be described as Anywhere, USA. It was mostly flat farmland, with several small wooded areas here and there. Most of the population was held up in small towns and cities, the smallest housing about 850 people. The largest city was Toledo, which had a rich history, but a dark future with the murder rates and civil strife that reflected the future of the country.

A man cursed as his car-an early 2000's sedan-hit a large patch of ice on the road, losing traction for a moment before it was regained.

"It's nothing Dad, just hit some ice on 103," He said into his smartphone. A flash caught his eye in his peripheral vision, and he looked out to some of the small forests dotting the landscape. He saw some kind of blue glow from behind the stripped branches of the trees. He blinked, and it was gone. The strange sight was lost to memory when his father made a witty remark. "I know, and I had my AC on the other night!" He sighed. "Fuckin' Ohio, man. Where you have your AC and heater on in the same week."

The music playing from his radio started to leak into the phone's microphone. "Yeah, it's that music from that weird puppet movie. Team America World Police? Yeah, I can turn it up." He adjusted the volume of the radio, which had a CD inside it that he programmed.

 _"Terrorist your game is through 'cause now you have to answer too_  
 _America, fuck yeah!_  
 _So lick my butt and suck on my balls_  
 _America, fuck yeah!_  
 _What you gonna to do when we come for you now!"_

His eyes widened as a small creature wandered onto the road, its ringed tail dragging on the ground. He saw the light of his headlights reflect into its ringed eyes for a moment before it was sucked under the tires. David dropped his phone and put both hands on the steering wheel, swerving with the crash. The car dove engine-first into a ditch, the airbags deploying before impact.

He regained consciousness moments later, pushing down the airbags with a flail of his arms. He looked through his cracked-open windshield to see smoke pouring out form under his hood, telltale signs that something was wrong with his engine. His gaze fell down to his speedometer, and he saw his phone sitting there, his lock screen of an American flag on proud display. He grabbed it slowly and rubbed the surface of the screen with his thumb. His invest into a lifeproof case was worth it, as the smartphone-notorious for being easy to break-had come out of the whole incident with a few scuffs.

He noticed he was looking at his lock screen, which meant that his father had hung up on him sometime during the crash and was looking for him, probably bringing Uncle John and Uncle Dan with him.

Next he checked the passenger seat, seeing his backpack still there. He scoured through the Velcro-locked pockets to see if anything had flown out. He went through one of the pockets and pulled out a military patch. He smiled at the patch, rubbing his thumb over the stitching of Old Abe. He had brought it back from his uniform for his kid brother.

He was apart of the 101st Airborne Division as a designated marksman. His uncle-the historical fanboy that he was-was even more elated to learn that he was assigned to E Company of the 506th Regiment, spade and all.

He spent another minute checking his bag, which he had packed for a two-week stay with his parents for the holidays. He doubted he had to bring any clothes, his mom had said that they hadn't touched a thing since he had been over from one of his deployments three years earlier.

Just as he was about to leave, he opened the CD rack of the car. The rack slowly came out, the pieces of his mixtape clattering to the floor in several pieces.

Pulling up on the zipper of his fleece jacket and grabbing his backpack, he moved to open his car. The door wouldn't budge, but was persuaded to open after he kicked it open. He stepped out, his boots crunching in the fluffy snow falling from the night sky. He peered down to look at the tire, the light on his phone activated. He grimaced at the sight-the raccoon's remains covered the left tire, and its bones seemed to have punctured the rubber.

"Fuck," He muttered, turning off the light, "There goes my insurance. Fuck, that's still on Dad, what'll he-" He stopped his angry muttering and looked to the road. In the center of the road was a light blue sphere of pure energy, with small drips of the stuff as blue as the ocean falling off occasionally and landing on the asphalt, quickly evaporating.

Morbid curiosity pushed him out of his trance and urged him to take a step forward. He did so, and the sphere pulsed, its color shifting to a warm red. He took another step, and the sphere changed its color to a stark white. One more step, and it instantly changed to a deep red. Something inside it gave it more gravity than Jupiter, and it began pulling him in. He gasped and fell backwards as he lost his footing, grabbing the edge of the road. He screamed as he felt the pull become stronger, and his fingers lose their grip. Within moments, he lost it all together and was thrown toward the glowing red ball.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a Hammer, a Sickle and a Star.

* * *

His vision came back quick and unclear. All he could see from his position lying on his back was a blob of light colors way above him. He rubbed his eyes, rubbing the blurriness out of them.

He blinked once after his vision cleared, not believing what he was seeing. It was the Apotheosis of George Washington, the painting that was on the ceiling of the Capitol Building's rotunda. He sat up, and looked around. He was in a completely white...nothingness. The only things with him was the painting floating in the sky and an old TV sitting on a small wooden table, two antennas sticking out of it. He guessed it was made around the late 80s, maybe 1987. It would've been something that his dad would've watched shows on-

He looked to his left and saw a person sitting there. He jumped back, holding in a shriek of fright. He calmed down, and studied the teenage boy. Short, spiky black hair, the beginning of a goatee, small circular glasses, enormous muscles-He was looking at his father at fifteen years of age.

He turned around quickly as he heard sniffles from behind him, and saw his three uncles. Uncle Dan, who-by his appearance now and in old family photos of him holding his infant sons-had just had his kids. Uncle Dave looked like he had just began growing his signature ponytail, which sat behind the same baseball cap he had worn since he was born. And Uncle John, who was leaning against an armchair, his giant arms crossed over his barrel chest, which was covered by a tank top. In the arm chair was his grandpa, gripping the arm rests with a white-knuckle grip, and clutching the arm of Uncle Dave was his grandma.

Gulping, he scrambled to the spot beside his teenage father, he watched the TV screen. It was nothing but static. He almost turned away, then the screen came to life. It was an emergency public broadcast message, emitting the terrible electronic beep that followed a terrible, nation-wide emergency. Scrolls of text came across the screen as a gospel choir sang America the Beautiful from George Washington's painting. But he didn't pay it no mind, completely numb as he read what came on the television.

 _Emergency Alert System_

 _United States Government Issued a Government Shutdown_

 _"This is a message from the Office of the president of the United States."_

The screen cut back to static momentarily to show footage of a full-scale riot in the streets of a large city. From what he could see, it was Los Angeles. It cut to riots of the same magnitude in Detroit, then Baltimore, then St. Louis.

His grandmother murmured something, tears falling down her face.

 _"The elected government has now resigned."_

An amateur cameraman showed a Congressman that he didn't recognize be gunned down in the streets. It cut to a similar shooting, but suited and uniformed men dove on the target. He had just witnessed the attempted assassination of Ronald Regan.

 _"All control over regions has been relinquished to state governors."_

A balcony holding a majority of the Soviet government standing on a balcony, slapping vigorously. Behind them was a ripped apart American flag. The static came and was replaced with a young American man, clad in jeans and sporting a mullet, standing on top of a smokestack with a Soviet flag in his hand, waving it merrily.

 _"The United States has been dissolved."_

* * *

 **The United States has been dissolved**

 **Hearts of Iron: Red World**


	2. New World

The blue orb of energy popped back into existence. December 23rd had arrived, the sun set to peer over the horizon in less than an hour. The orb pulsed blue as the man was thrown out onto the hard, frozen asphalt onto his face. He tried to breathe in, but couldn't. His lungs wouldn't respond to his mental commands. If was as if that part of his brain had turned off. He panicked as his lungs began to burn, and his vision darken-

He breathed in a deep breath of the cold air. He coughed and clutched his stomach, sore from the hard drop. He rolled onto his back as the orb slowly fizzled out of existence, its diameter shrinking until it was smaller than the human eye could see.

He got onto his feet and looked around. The grass and empty farm plots were covered in a downy layer of snow, and his car was still there. He could see three black tire marks, with the fourth being blood-red. He swore silently, and looked up and down the road. Not a car was in sight.

He pulled out his phone and checked to see if his father had called him back. There weren't any new notifications, even after the seven hours that the clock read. There wasn't even any cell service.

He furrowed his brow and put his phone away in his pocket. Maybe the whole orb vision thing had something to do with it.

He walked over to his car and sat on the hood, smoke no longer coming out of the side. He leaned back and looked over the land that surrounded him, admiring the beauty of the humble farmland. He smiled slightly at the sparkling of the snow on the ground from the waning moonlight and approaching sunlight, the few stalks of corn that stubbornly remained in the ground, and even a deer that wandered out of the woods in front of him for a moment.

His father always did that when he was in deep thought, just cracking open a cold one and sitting out on the back porch.

He thought about the strange orb vision. Seeing his family-BEING with his family in an event 23 years ago that never happened. And taken by a glowing, color-shifting ball of something for only a few minutes, and thrown back into the real world-apparently seven hours later.

That was when he realized the gravity of the event he had just witnessed-the dissolution of the United States, headed by Ronald 'Fucking' Reagan no less. He couldn't wrap his head around it-Reagan led the final charge of the Cold War, and saw to most of the final blows to the USSR, which led to THIER dissolution. What could've happened that turned everything around? War? Another great depression? Civil war? Hell, nuclear warfare? Had he been thrown into a desolate, nuclear wasteland of an Earth?

He almost didn't hear the rumbling of a large vehicle down the road, he was so deep in thought. He squinted his eyes, hearing but not seeing it over the small hill. He dove into the ditch beside his car as he saw a large gun on top. He fell right beside his damaged tire, grimacing at the smell of the several hour dead raccoon, which was already starting to decompose. He looked up and saw a few turkey buzzards circling the area. The whole situation was giving him bad reminders of his time overseas.

The vehicle, as it parked next to his crashed car, was identified by the man as a M113 APC. The plating was completely black, with a strange emblem stamped onto it-a fist on a blue background on the left side, with thirteen white and red stripes on the right. The gun he saw was a Browning .50, which was manned by a man in white fatigues and body armor, with a red sash on his bicep and a white single filter gas-mask covering his face that had two circular pieces of polarized glass for seeing and black duct tape covering the area where his mouth would be. He looked around the area with slow swivels of his head, grasping his gun like it was a lifeline.

Four more men dressed in similar uniforms hopped out of the rear hatch, small submachine guns in their hands, which bared a strong resemblance to the AK. One pointed up further down the road, and another nodded and jogged down.

"2, radio it in," He said, his voice heavily distorted by his mask. '2' nodded, a black balaclava covering his face, and touched the side of his headset. An antenna from the large radio on his back extended.

"Columbus Command, this is Patrol 3 Hardin-Hancock-Putnam," He said, his voice normal and light compared to his comrades. Must've been something in the gas mask. "Investigating an unregistered car crash on State Road 103." The other gas-masked soldier turned on a flashlight, scouring the inside of the car. "Make is Ford, model and year unknown."

The man slid under his car as the radio operator made his way around the passenger side to check the damage. "Cause of crash; small animal sucked under tire." He turned on a flashlight, checking the tire in the light. "Creature seems to be racco-" He flashed the light over the man, who covered his face with an arm, shielding his eyes from the harsh white light. "Hey, you! Out of there!" The soldier that had been checking the road peered down with him, grabbing his leg. He pulled the man out, keeping one hand open so his gun was on him.

"Stand up," He ordered, grabbing his sleeve and hoisting him up. He didn't get much rest, as his back was slammed into the car. The apparent squad leader walked up to him as the other soldier pulled his backpack out of the hiding place by the strap, throwing it at his feet and aiming his gun at him.

"Who are you?" The squad leader asked. The man opened his mouth, but quickly closed it with wide eyes. His name. He burrowed into his mind to find the thing that should've come on impulse, but couldn't remember it. As he kept trying to remember, he couldn't even think of his parents' names.

Something in the portal-ball thingy must've given him partial amnesia.

"Where's your identification papers?" The squad leader asked after the man remained silent for a few moments. The man's mind raced as he pulled out his wallet, opening it up and pulling out his military ID.

"Does this count?" He asked, trying to look at it to see his name. The squad leader didn't respond, snatching it from his hand before he could read it. A second later, he dropped it on the ground and fired an extended burst into it, utterly destroying it. The man jumped, not expecting the move.

"You're under arrest," He said harshly, slowly changing his magazine for a fresh one.

"What for?" The man asked. The soldier growled and slammed the butt of his gun into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The two grunts took him by his arms while the radio operator grabbed his pack. Iron cuffs were slapped onto his wrist.

"Columbus Command, Patrol 3 Hancock-Hardin-Putnam," He said into his mic, "Picked up suspect in procession of US Armed Forces identification card. Suspect was active member of American Republic Armed Forces." ' _American Republic?'_ The man thought, ' _does he mean the United States?'_ "Bringing it to Hancock Command for termination. Over." The man shot his head up.

"Wait, I'm being executed?" He asked, close to hysterics. He was thrown into the APC, hitting his unprotected head on the hard metal floor. The squad leader got in first, walking towards him menacingly.

"Why wouldn't we, you scum," He said. His foot rose up and kicked him in the face, knocking him out. He heard a few more words before losing consciousness.

"Welcome to the new world."

* * *

Findlay, Ohio was known as, before the dissolution, Flag City. The city kept that name to heart, being one of the most patriotic towns in the country before the dissolution of the United States. Now, it was a drab, desolate town of the worker. The old Marathon corporation building was now the hub of workers' unions from the four counties surrounding it, and the local tire factory that been quadrupled in size in the 'boom of new, free workers'.

The man only knew that they were going there was from the chatter of the men who had thrown him the APC. They only referred to it was 'Hancock Command'. The APC was apparently doubling as a prisoner bus; Four other people sat by him, fear in their eyes.

Eyes that hadn't yet left him.

They stared at the patch on the bicep of his fleece coat, staring at the Stars and Stripes. They looked like they had never seen it before, with something else in their eyes that he couldn't place a finger on.

He glanced over to the soldiers/secret police that brought him in, and saw the radio operator looking at him and his patch too. He saw the same look in his dark brown eyes. He quickly looked down upon making eye contact, choosing to look over his gun instead.

"Columbus Command to Patrol 3 Hancock-Hardin-Putnam," The radio screeched, the words almost drowned out by the insane amount of static, "Divert to Execution Ground 2 for extermination."

The vehicle turned sharply, almost throwing a few of the prisoners out of their seats. It slowly stopped, and the door flew open. The secret police climbed out, with the squad leader standing next to the door while brandishing his weapon.

"Everyone out," He growled. The other prisoners slowly got out of the APC with short, shaky steps. The man, however, stayed in his seat, defiant. "Hey, American! On your feet!" He spit on the ground in defiance.

"Eat my ass!" He shouted back. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the back of his head that appeared alongside the crack of gunmetal to bone. He was thrown to the metal floor again, banging his forehead against it. He felt blood run down his face as he was hoisted up from behind. He turned his head for a moment, and saw the man who had been mounting the turret. He was thrown out of the door, landing hard on his side.

"Get up, patriot," One of the secret police snarled, kicking him hard in the gut so he was lying on his back and grabbing the front of his jacket. He hoisted him up and shoved him towards a brick wall. The man turned his head to see the same policeman jerk his gun toward the wall, where the other prisoners were standing. Turning toward, he paled as he realized he was looking at the place where he would die; Confused, angry, and yearning for his home.

Despite the familiar scenery, this was not home.

He walked to an open spot between a man and woman in plain, worn out clothes, faces blanked by terror. He saw that there were several more people about to be sot by these white-armored men, almost 15 in total. He turned his back to the wall, staring defiantly at the force of strange cops in front of him. There were two more M113s, and about 10 secret police not counting the ones on the APCs' guns.

The man caught the concealed eye of the duct-taped secret police, who was pulling back the receiver on his heavy gun. They locked eyes, and he cut his own neck with his hand.

'You're dead.'

A man dressed in a heavy black coat walked out from behind the other APC, a sharp military cap on his head. The man was instantly reminded of the pictures he had seen of Russian Commissars from World War II.

From how the backs of the secret police stood straighter as he walked past, he probably was.

The commissar turned to the gathered crowd, most looking half starved and dressed in ratty clothes. Only the ones who were dressed in decent clothing and looked well fed matched the young commissar's hawkish expression.

"People of Findlay!" He shouted, "Standing here are sixteen enemies of the state! They stand accused of conspiracy against the state, possession of fake and illegal identification papers, and active rebellion!" The man looked down the row, and saw a man close to his age staring defiantly forward, a bandanna with the Stars and Stripes around his neck.

"Following the Montpelier Accords of Vice Chairman Sanders, these criminals are sentenced to death! For the glory of the American People's Commonwealth!" The man's mind was in a whirlwind of confusion, but one thing was for certain; these were his last moments.

The commissar locked eyes with him, making the coated man smirk. He looked to one of the secret police and pointed at the man. The secret police nodded, stomping up to him and slugging him in the face. He grabbed his forearm and grabbed him on his knees to the commissar. The man looked up to see the commissar grinning evilly.

"READY WEAPONS!" Weapons were loaded, and he could imagine sadistic grins behind the masks. The commissar himself drew a pistol, an M1911 from the looks of it. He leveled the pistol right in front of his face. The man gulped, but held his ground, staring into the cold, evil eyes of the commissar.

Behind them, the radio operator that had brought him in was backing up, behind all of the secret police. He leaned into the APC he came into, pulling out his backpack. He carefully placed the large radio on the ground-attaching his headphones to its back panel-and replaced it with the pack.

"AIM!" The weapons' barrels were lifted up to point at them. The commissar's gun was cocked.

The radio operator pulled a grenade from his belt and primed it, looking up to the roof of the building before nodding. He tossed it into the turret of the left one, right behind duct tape.

"FI-" The explosion blew duct tape out of the vehicle-the top half of him, that is. On the rooftop, a rocket flew straight into the other one, detonating the munitions inside the and sending it flying backwards in flames.

The radio operator lifted his weapon and fired an extended burst, killing three of the secret police, their white body armor doing nothing. The commissar turned around, looking upon the flaming husks with horror.

The man took the opportunity, getting up quickly off of his knees and tackling him to the ground. The other secret policemen would've done something if five large guns hadn't opened up on them from the roof, along with a few handguns from the crowd.

The man flailed on the commissar as best as he could, his hands still cuffed. The commissar screamed shrilly, freeing a hand and punching him in the face. He raised his pistol and fired, though the man lurched back. The round hit the iron links of his cuffs, blasting them apart. Utilizing the commissar's shock and his new-found freedom, he punched him in the face and grabbed his gun. He fired a quick round into his skull, spraying his brains on the snow-covered pavement behind his head.

"WOLVERINES!" Someone shouted on the rooftop. Turning around, he saw a young kid, no more than fifteen, standing on the edge of the roof, an LMG in one hand.

"Wolverines!" The bandanna man shouted, standing over a dead secret policeman with his rifle in his hands. At the shout, the former prisoners split up, ducking into buildings and cars, or into alleyways. The fugitives melted into the city, now almost impossible to track and recapture for the 'American People's Commonwealth'.

The man felt a tap on his shoulder, which he responded with shoving his new gun in the person's face without looking. He turned around quickly, and saw the radio operator, one hand showing that his finger was off his gun's trigger an the other holding his pack. He lowered the gun, accepting the pack and standing up.

"Who are you?" The man asked, looping his straps around his arms. The radio operator pulled off his mask, revealing a face around the same age as his framed by shoulder-length brown hair.

"Sullivan Rivers," He said, "Hancock Cell of the American Rebel Alliance." He looked down to his patch. "Who are you?" The man looked down, thinking hard.

"John," He said after a few moments, "John Washington." Sullivan smirked, looking up to the roof and waving his hand. One of the 'Wolverines' acknowledged him with a thumbs up as they disappeared. He turned back to John, offering him his pack. He grabbed the strap, looping it around his shoulders as Sullivan grabbed the radio and reattached it to his harness.

"Follow me, John," Sullivan said, running down the street behind the smoking M113s. John stooped down to grab a fallen SMG before following him.

John slammed his back into the wall that Sullivan had stopped at, peaking over the edge. John kept his gun trained down the street, towards the carnage.

"So what's the plan, Sully?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the smoking APCs, "Got an exfil down that street?"

"That's the good news," Sullivan said, leaning his head out a little too far, "The bad news-" A bullet slammed into the edge of the wall inches from Sully's head, blasting away some of the brick and sending him scurrying back behind cover. "That's the bad news." John crouched down and waddled over to the ledge himself, peaking right behind Sully's knees. He saw a squad of soldiers in Cold War-era camouflaged uniforms, complete with 'Nam-era flak jackets and what looked like M1 helmets. One sighted him and took aim with an AK, firing a burst of 7.62 at him. He ducked back, watching the vapor trails fly right past him.

"That's some bad news," He commented, taking a quick peek over again. He tapped Sullivan's thigh. "Got any frags?" He asked. Sullivan pulled a fragmentation grenade off of his belt and handed it over.

"Watcha plannin'?" He asked, his eyebrow cocked up in curiosity. John pulled the pin.

"Just give me some cover," He told him, releasing the spoon. He lunged forward out of cover, throwing the grenade over a few crashed cars in the middle of the street as he dove behind a car. He hit the ground with a grunt as the grenade detonated, taking out a few of the soldiers, slicing their bodies apart with the shrapnel. He looked over to Sully and nodded. The nod was returned, and Sullivan began blind-firing behind the wall.

John hopped over the hood of the at, making sure to keep low as he landed. A soldier was maneuvering around the trunk of the next car, and was immediately plugged by a quick three-round burst. John was quick, speeding past the man's body almost immediately after it hit the ground. He moved to the next car, emptying half of his magazine on two unsuspecting hostiles. Another popped up from behind the next-and last car on the street, firing a few rounds. One of the rounds grazed his left shoulder.

"Fuck!" He shouted, still managing to raise his own gun and send a suppressive burst over his head. One unguided round hit his assailant in his left shoulder, sending him to the ground. He got up and hopped over the car's trunk, shoving his gun's barrel into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

John noted his PASGT helmet before it was penetrated by half a dozen rounds through the back of the soldier's throat.

He got up and scanned the surrounding, only finding Sullivan standing out of cover, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Dude!" He shouted, jogging over, "That was incredible!" John shrugged.

"Not really," He dismissed him, bending down to the soldier he just killed. He began taking off the dead man's combat webbing, fastening it around his torso. He dropped his SMG in favor of the man's FAL. "Who are these people?"

"8th People's Rifles," Sullivan answered, with a small amount of disgust in his voice, "Regular APC Army."

"APC...American People's Commonwealth?" John received a nod in response. "What is that?" Sullivan narrowed his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" He asked, "The Commonwealth's been around for over two decades. They're Republic's biggest rival, AND they have DC in a military stranglehold." John blinked, slowly looking up to Sullivan.

"What?" Sullivan's brow cocked up in utter confusion. It took him a moment to find his next words.

"W-what's the capital of the American Republic?"

"If you mean the US, Washington DC."

"Who's the president?"

"Barrack Obama." Sullivan stepped back with a bewildered look on his face, hands falling onto his gun.

"I don't believe this," He said after a moment, "You got the questions wrong, but you seem so...sure of yourself."

"Because I'm right!" John exclaimed, his patience being worn down quickly by a growing feeling of panic.

"Donald Rumsfeld is the current president," Sullivan said, "And the government has been in Atlanta since '88. Since the Panic..."

"What Panic?!" John got up and shook Sullivan's shoulders. "What the hell happened!?" He pushed him off of his body, grabbing his gun. He heard a few shots go off somewhere in the city, followed by a few shouts.

"There's no time to explain," He said, putting both hands on his gun, "We have to get to the extraction point now." John cursed under his breath, but nodded.

"Alight," He said, "Where to?" Sully waved his hand forward, more down the street. He pulled a cell phone out of a pocket as they set down the street, quickly dialing a number. John noted its similar appearance to a Nokia phone.

"Haymaker, this is Incog," He said, "Moving to exfil with rescued VIP." He stopped at the corner of another drab brick building, peeking around the corner.

"Wait, I'm a VIP?" He asked. Sullivan turned his head and put a finger to his lips, gesturing to the street beside them. John peeked around behind him, seeing a squad of secret police walking down the street towards them, oblivious to their presence.

Behind them, parked on the next street, was a white van. A completely generic white van. Not suspicious in the slightest.

"Got an idea," Sullivan whispered, closing the phone with a quiet clap and putting both hands on his gun, "Get behind that car." He pointed behind them about thirty meters, the entire length of the street, to a grey sedan parked on the curb. John didn't respond, simply doing as he asked. He opened the glass door and went inside, making sure to keep the barrel of his gun pointed outside.

He watched as Sullivan tensed up, no doubt the secret police coming ever closer. After a few moments, he randomly dove backwards towards the street, spraying his gun. He caught one with a hail of bullets, and wounded another. Sullivan quickly got up to his feet and made a break for it, but the secret police recovered a lot quicker than he must've thought. One raised his firearm-A P90-a fired an extended burst. More than a few slammed into his back, sending him flying onto the street face first.

Before the secret police could check his body, John had taken aim of one of them through the windows of the car and fired. A single round penetrated all of the glass and the man's gas mask, which kept his now-liquidified brain in one place as he fell backwards. John quickly took aim of another over the roof of the car and fired again, sending a two round burst into one's chest. The last two-one of them the wounded one-noticed and fired at him, sending him ducking behind the steel protection of the car.

He came back out of cover and saw Sullivan quickly roll over, pulling out a pistol from its holster and firing three bullets into the non-wounded secret police. He sent down with a scream, leaving one more standing, armed only with a pistol. The last police's life ended quickly after that, a single 7.62 from thirty meters away all that it took.

John sprinted down the street, coming to a halt by Sully. He offered a hand, which he graciously accepted. As soon as he was pulled up, Sullivan took off the radio and checked it over.

"Fuck," He let out, turning it around so John could see its back. About fifteen bullet holes were clearly visible on the black surface, most likely destroying the inner components.

"I'm assuming that was important," John remarked. Sully sighed.

"You could say that," He said, standing back up, "That thing can theoretically communicate to any radio on the planet." John raised his eyebrows.

"Impressive." Sully made to move forward, but was stopped by John's held out hand. "Woah, man!" He picked up the disabled radio and thrust it into his hands. "Just because its destroyed doesn't mean it isn't useful. Hell, it could still be functional." Sully shrugged his shoulders and took it, attaching to his back again.

"Sound point," He muttered, "Now come on, exfil's down the road." The two jogged down the street, past the dead bodies of the secret police and towards the van.

"Who are those guys, anyway?" John asked.

"State Security," Sully answered quickly, "Secret police of the APC." John chuckled humorlessly as they slowed to a walk.

"SS, huh?" He looked up the road in front of them to see a group of corpses, one SS and two rebels, noting the red sash on his bicep. He could see the clenched fist of the American People's Commonwealth, the nation that had tainted his home state beyond recognition. "Fitting."

The door of the van slid open, and the same man with the Stars and Stripes bandanna appeared, a UMP in hand.

"There ya are!" He exclaimed, waving them in, "Now get in before someone sees!" Sully hopped in first, and John hesitantly followed. The door was closed by the bandanna man and the driver floored it, the tires squealing as it left the scene.

John settled himself into one of the many seats in the van, which seemed to be a modified-and discreet-personnel carrier. Five other rebels were in there, dressed in all kinds of military gear and wearing the same American bandanna, staring at John with the same intensity as the prisoners. Now, in his otherwise relaxed state, he could see the emotion in their shining eyes beside the longing.

Hope.

"So," Sully said beside him, "You okay?" John nodded.

"Yeah," He said, smiling, "That must've taken some planning." Sully nodded.

"I've been getting the Alliance information on the inner workings of the SS for months now, and when Haymaker here-" The bandanna man across from him nervously smiled and waved while the woman beside him punched him in the shoulder- "Got himself captured, we organized a Purge operation to get him out. Sheer coincidence that you were there." John nodded, frowning slightly.

"A Purge op?" Sully grimaced. 'Haymaker' answered for him.

"We deploy teams all across the area, usually by intersections and points of main transportation, and kill as many of the Northeasters as possible." A quiet murmur broke throughout the van, in agreement with the tactic.

"Well, if it works..." John muttered.

"Any other questions?" Haymaker joked.

"Yeah, what's with the old phones?" Sully cocked an eyebrow.

"Old?" He asked, pulling out the cell phone, "I got this before I went undercover, during a trip to Atlanta. It's the latest addition, a Nokia 10K." John stifled a laugh, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his iPhone.

"Ever hear of the iPhone 4?" He asked, smirking at their stunned faces.

"It's just a screen and a few buttons," Haymaker said after a few moments, "How the hell does that even work?"

"Touchscreen," John answered, showing Sully as he opened his phone and put in his code with a few presses. He stared at the screen as he opened up an app-Angry Birds.

"You're playing a game?" He asked, flabbergasted, "On your phone?"

"Yeah," John answered, "They've been around for awhile..."

"Where'd you even get that?" The woman who punched Haymaker asked.

"In a New York Apple store, when my leave started a week ago." Sully looked to John, then to the phone, then back to John.

"Well, I believe you now," He said after a moment, sighing.

"Believe what?" Haymaker asked. Sully nodded to John.

"I believe that this man is from some sort of...alternate dimension."

* * *

 **The Panic: At the conclusion of Ronald Reagan's Final Speech in 1987, American society completely broke down. Looting, murder and rape spread rampant as the 50 states were released to their own devices. The Panic officially ended in 1992, when the final new nation was formed, but the first of these new countries only truly stabilized in 2005. But for those five years, America was an anarchic hellhole.**

 **Alt-left wingers, socialists, anarchists, and syndicalist answered the call of Noam Chomsky and fled to New England, eventually securing land as far west as Chicago to form the American People's Commonwealth. Gus Hall the CPUSA took to arms and forcibly took control of the West Coast-California, Washington, Oregon, and most of Nevada-to form the United American People's Republics, or the UAPR. Vice President George H.W. Bush-along with the US Government and the majority of the United States Military called to 'Any and all loyal Americans' to the South to 'Keep the American Dream alive'. They secured territory from Dallas to the Kentucky side of the Ohio River, and are considered one of the most dangerous nations in the world, with there possession of the US nuclear launch codes and their jingoistic public.**

 **State Security: Full names State Security Services. The secret police of the American People's Commonwealth, feared across the world for their anti-insurgency and interrogation methods, as well as their ominous acronym, SS. The SS is also the APC's premier special operations forces, with their Task Force 666. They have been named the main rival of the German _Stasi,_ both for their double role as a spec ops unit and their perfect practice of _Zersetzung._ In addition to their headquarters in the old UN building in New York and their multiple safehouses and listening all across the country, they have constructed several extermination camps outside of the major cities, most likely for fear tactics or a massive government purge. It has been said by an Arabian foreign inspector that was invited to Philadelphia in 2003 that "The State Security would give both Hitler and Stalin nightmares."**

 **Recruits are mostly taken from the upper crust of Commonwealth society, but a select few have volunteered from the dregs of society. Only one instance of infiltration has ever been reported, the infiltrator eventually defecting and rejoining the ranks of the American Rebel Alliance, the report taken from the classified documents of the APC government at the conclusion of the Reunification Wars.**

 **American Rebel Alliance: After George H.W. Bush's Call, most of the loyal Americans either packed up and moved if they weren't in newly proclaimed American Republic's territory, or secured as much territory as possible if they were already there. However, many Americans couldn't move down to the Republic, either from the distance, the danger of their travel route, or circumstances where they couldn't leave their towns or states. Many of these Americans buckled down and formed the American Rebel Alliance, an international paramilitary/terrorist organization that only had one demand to the countries they operated in-the Reunification of the United States.**

 **They have taken responsibility for many attacks since their founding in 1992, and not all of them have been good hits. The World Trade Center Bombing in 1993 is one of those examples, headed by Neo-Nazi Matthias Koehl. He had since then been disposed of as the leader of the NYC Subcell of the APC Cell. Since then, the majority of the Rebel Alliance have taken to other methods, mostly targeting uniformed military and government personnel in "Purge" operations, as well as helping out the local populace in any way possible, in "Goodneighbor" operations. Goodneighbor deeds include policing, guard duty, humanitarian assistance, assassinations, and much more. It has proved to be a success, and many people in New America support them and-to an extent-their cause.**

 **The people of the Rebel Alliance come from all walks of life. Former FBI and CIA agents, fighting alongside former drug dealers. Buckeye and Wolverine, tackling communists to the ground together. A popular story among the ranks include a prison warden in Maine ordering his guards to release all prisoners so they could join the resistance of the newly formed American People's Commonwealth. The American Republic and United Kingdom have been known to deploy special operations units to help train the rebels-the newest generation of whom the first ones to not be born when the United States was still standing.**

 **The American Rebel Alliance has scourged up a significant portion of their supplies by themselves, the first generation of fighters having used their own firearms. Later on, they began receiving material aid from the few countries that still supported their cause, including the UK, Ireland, Brazil, and (of course) the American Republic. From receiving material (Weapons, ammo, clothing, etc.) From so many different sources, there isn't an official uniform and equipment in the Alliance, the only requirement is the possession of a bandanna with the Stars and Stripes printed on it and worn in some fashion. It is the easiest way to identify a rebel, and it has been known in the UAPR and the APC for people to be dragged out of their homes and shot if they were found in procession of one.**


	3. FOB

**Twenty-five miles north of Findlay, Ohio**

 **12:34 PM**

 **December 23, 2010**

* * *

The drive out of the city to wherever the rebels were based in was a confusing time for 'John Washington', as the amnesic man had began calling himself. The whole ride was a whirlwind of him explaining who he was-or at least, what he remembered about himself. He also explained what he remembered of his life, like where he grew up, what he did, and what had happened from 1987 to the present.

"So Barack Obama's president right now?" Haymaker asked after the brief recap.

"And the World Trade Center's gone?" The black woman who had punched Haymaker asked, calling herself Knox.

"And we're fighting in the Middle East?" Sully had asked.

"Yes, yes and yes," John answered, a grimace on his face, "In fact, I was in Afghanistan a couple weeks ago." Haymaker guffawed in amazement.

"Really?" He asked rhetorically. John nodded, grabbing the front of his jacket and tugging it.

"You think I stole this or something?" He asked, getting a few laughs. His face blanked and he looked down to his chest, right where his nametag should've been. Of course! It would make everything a little easier; At the very least he would have the closure of his last name!

He didn't see a thing on his chest, just more of the UCP pattern. The only evidence he could see of anything ever being there was a faded black strip and small amounts of loose stitching.

"Something wrong, John?" Sully asked. He looked back up, the world had been blocked when his mind was racing. He shook his head, taking one hand off the barrel of his FAL to scratch the back of his head.

"No, everything's good," He said after a pause, sighing at the end. He looked back up to Haymaker. "So, any other questions for me?" He looked down for a moment, thinking.

"What branch?" Knox asked, "What branch did you serve in?" John responded by taking his backpack off and rummaging through it. He pulled out his Airborne patch, tossing it to her from across the way.

"Airborne," He said, "Easy Company of-"

"The 101st!" She cried, "Holy shit, my great granddaddy was with them during World War II!" John huffed, a smile on his face.

"No shit?" He asked.

"Where were you stationed at?" Sully asked, "I know a few people that have been stationed in Fort Drum since we took over." John shook his head as the van hit something on the road, causing a small dump.

"I would've been stationed in Fort Campbell," He said, "But I spent most of my career so far in Camp Leatherneck."

"Afghanistan?" Someone else asked. John nodded his head.

"Just think of Afghanistan as Vietnam," He began explaining, taking off his combat boot. He turned it upside down and shook it, everyone in the van laughing in disbelief as a small amount of sand fell out, settling on the steel of the floor. "But with a lot of fucking sand."

The laughing and overall fun times were interrupted by the van, which slowed to a sudden stop. The driver grabbed his gun-an Uzi-and gripped the handle with his right hand, while gripping the steering wheel with his left.

"STAR!" Someone shouted outside. John clambered up to the driver's seat after putting his boot back on, pulling out his pilfered M1911 from the waistband of his pants. John took a small glance at their surroundings; they were in a wooded area, the ground covered in dried leaves, brown weeds, dead sticks, and piles of snow. The driver stuck his head out of the window.

"TEXAS!" He shouted. There was a pause in the forest. A pile of weeds and snow shifted, and began getting to its feet. The pile spawned an arm to grab a discarded scoped rifle lying on the snowy ground, and got to its feet. The sniper-in a custom ghillie suit for the current environment-walked up to the driver's window.

"How's it going, Bill?" He asked in a deep Scottish accent, extending a snow-covered arm. The driver put the gun down and clasped the outstretched hand with his right, smiling.

"All things considered, not bad, Mac," He replied. The sniper nodded. He pointed to the right of them, where John could see the dirt trail extending into the forest.

"You're free to go in," He said, "Just watch yourself around Monty today; Think it's that time of the month." 'Bill' smiled.

"Good to know, Mac." He rolled up and the window and pushed down on the petal.

The sniper looked through the window and directly into John's eyes. He could barely make them out from the snow and the weeds, but they were there. Cold and watching.

He shuddered a little moved back into his feet. Sully nudged his shoulder.

"You meet Macmillan?" He asked. John shook his head, shivering a little more.

"J-just saw him talking to the driver," He said. Sully nodded.

"Well, you'll be talking to him soon enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Mac's SAS," Haymaker answered, "He's the military advisor for our cell right now, alongside Cruise. Probably gonna want to talk to you at some point; You know, being from another dimension and all." He took a drink from a canteen that was being passed around. "He's also been our go-to sniper for awhile now." Sully nodded again.

"He tagged John Bachtell about a month ago," He said, shrugging his shoulders and laughing a little, "He just took his kit with him one morning, and came came a few days later with one spent casing and a newspaper." John nodded in appreciation.

"So, a total badass?" Haymaker laughed.

"I like this dimension-hopper!" He exclaimed, getting a few laughs and one 'shut the hell up'.

A few more minutes passed before the van slowed down to another stop. John began to move up to the driver again, but was stopped by Sully's hand.

"Relax, John," He said, "We're just going to the garage." Sure enough, the van turned right and down a ramp into a cave of some sort. Overheard lights were dim, but enough for the average person to see clearly. The van pulled into a parking space in-between a Humvee with a minigun attached to the top and a Ford truck with a .50 caliber machine gun in the flatbed.

"Alright people," Bill said, turning around, "Get to barracks. Incog, get to HQ for debrief." Sully nodded as he threw the door open, everything climbing out of the van. Haymaker jumped out and grabbed John's shoulder, one hand still holding his AK.

"I'll take to the bunks," He said, "You'll be here for a little bit." John nodded, taking one last look at Sully's white form going towards another tunnel before following Haymaker.

"Damn, you guys would make the VC jealous," John commented, looking at the structure and vast size of the underground base, "Who made this shit?"

"Well, back in the 80s," Haymaker began, "A lot of people were starting to lose faith in the system while it was failing. Only a few actually saw how close the end was, and how fucked up the aftermath would be." He gestured to a large armory as they passed it, and John could see hundreds of thousands of rounds, as well as dozens of guns. "The rich began investing in military hardware, construction crews and PMCs. Donald Trump, Mike Bloomberg to name a few; All chipped in and began building this stuff, buying weapons, and hiring mercs."

"And when that Panic thing started..."

"The mercs used their resources to bunker down and begin recruitment of patriots in the chaos, and eventually helped found the ARA." John nodded, turning the new information in his head-while that same information was common history to these people.

He saw a rebel-dressed in brown garb with a brown M1 helmet with a piece of metal protecting his forehead-jump into a side tunnel and crawled deeper.

"Those lead to pillboxes scattered everywhere in the woods," Haymaker explained, "When the Northeasters find us, we're gonna be prepared." John grimaced.

"'When', not 'if'?" He asked. Haymaker shook his head.

"We've had a few close calls, but other bases like this one have already been found." He gestured to several more hallways they passed, their walls lined with bunks. "We've expanded a lot to accommodate the strays. We're the third biggest in the state." He turned down into the last barracks on the right, John hastily following him. Haymaker threw his gun next to an empty bunk, and plopped down into the bottom bunk.

"How long do you think I have to sleep?" John asked, throwing his gun on the top bunk and climbing up the small ladder. He checked the safety on the FAL and cradled it in his arms, sighing as his head sunk into the pillow.

"Probably an hour," Haymaker said, "I'll get ya up, don't worry." John nodded wordlessly, shifting his body a little to get more comfortable. He closed his eyes, not even bothering to take off his boots.

* * *

 **2** **years earlier**

 **Sheberghan, Afghanistan**

* * *

A mortar exploded a few feet in front of him, sending him flying backwards a few feet and landing on his back. He looked around, his vision blurry from the force of the concussive waves. He was lucky the mortar round used was a high explosive; If it was fragmentation, he would've been dead.

"Private!" He heard someone shout. He looked around, only seeing dark blotches with lighter blotches hiding behind them. "Private!" He shook his head and looked up, seeing the clear form of Major Blackburn, one of his commanding officers. Blackburn grabbed the front of his vest and threw him into cover. His back impacted the rusty body of the destroyed car, with Major Blackburn crouching behind him.

"Thank you, sir!" John said behind his white face covering. Blackburn nodded, grabbing the M4A1 around his body and pointing it across the river in front of him.

"Thank me by doing your job!" He shouted above the explosions and gunfire. John nodded quickly and scrambled across the ground to grab his M14 EBR. After checking the magazine for any damage, he wedged the barrel in a dent on the hood and aimed down the ACOG scope.

His first target across the small river was a Taliban fighter with a Soviet-made RPG, his face completely covered by his turban. John should've felt some remorse for this man, as he could most likely not even see him.

But he lost his remorse for his kind of job. He hadn't had it since his first patrol.

He set the man's head in the crosshairs and fired. The 7.62 round quickly went from Point A to Point B, cracking the man's head open like a watermelon and sending his body falling down the stairs he was standing down like a puppet with his strings cut.

His body rolled down the stone stairs and into a group of three terrorists at the base of them, blindly firing at him and his comrades like uneducated loons. The body knocked them over, and John took that time to line up a chest into one of the men's chests. He selected a man in loose blue robes, with nothing protecting his head. He fired, the man jerked his body, causing the bullet to hit his waist instead.

The entire pile of bodies exploded in a ball of orange flames, glittering shrapnel, and bloody chunks of meat. The bullet had hit one of the man's grenades, causing his whole belt to explode. Several of the fighters still standing on that side of the river fell down, groaning and bleeding onto their concrete landing from shrapnel wounds. The ones not effected jumped back in surprise, some rising enough out of cover to be plugged by the marksmen-him included.

On the American side, cheers erupted.

"Holy shit!"

"Someone's vest went off too early!"

"Bleed, motherfuckers, BLEED!"

Major Blackburn clapped his shoulder and shook it, a smile on his smile.

"Good job, deadshot," He said good-naturedly. He smiled behind his face covering.

"Thanks, sir," John said, "Just thanking you." The major nodded, turning his attention to his radio.

"Overlord, this is Blackburn," He said amid the continued whoops and hollers, "Enemy forces have been routed at Point Delta. Permission for E Company move forward, over?" The radio crackled.

" _Blackburn_ _, this is Overlord,"_ He said, " _Easy has the go ahead to push into downtown. Be advised, Charlie Company has met heavy resistance so far on the north side of the city."_ Blackburn nodded.

"Blackburn copies all, out." He looked down to John, gesturing his thumb behind him where a convoy of military vehicles were waiting, some of the Humvees manned by the Marines Easy Company had been sent in with.

John nodded silently and got off of his knee, jogging over to one of the Humvees, nodding to the Marine standing by the open door.

"Was that you?" The Leatherneck asked, nodding to the smoldering concrete landing, "The explosion?" John looked down to the Corporal chevrons on his sleeve.

"Yes sir, it was," He answered, standing a little straighter. The Marine chuckled.

"Good job, trooper." He nodded to the .50 caliber machine gun resting on the top. "Now grab the gun, we're gonna need it." John nodded and climbed into the Humvee, the only other occupant being an Afghan Army observer in the passenger seat. John climbed put through the hole on the roof and grabbed the trigger, gripping it tightly.

" _All units, this is Blackburn,"_ His radio crackled, " _We're clear to move downtown. Embark and move out!"_ There was a rush of Marines and Airborne alike as they moved to the convoy, most going for the M1078 trucks with tan canvas covers, while the rest went for the Humvees.

 _"Eagle 1-1 to Blackburn, all units are embarked."_

 _Copy, all units move out."_

John gripped his gun for support as his Humvee-the lead, no less-lurched forward, but he quickly fell back on his training and began scanning the surrounding area. He could see several civilians rush for shelter at the sight of them, and he could hear the staccato of automatic weapons fire on the other side of the city. It was almost hypnotic.

Until that scream.

"RPG!"

John looked over for a brief moment to see the rocket-propelled grenade slam into the side of the Humvee.

* * *

"John!"

He awoke with a start, sweat covering his body. He clutched his chest, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. He could still feel the heat from the explosion on his skin, and he felt the scars he gained form the attack burn. His over-stimulated brain almost didn't register the poking he felt on his ass.

"You okay, buddy?" He looked down to see Haymaker, his AK's barrel poking his mattress, a concerned look on his face. John looked around to see everyone in the room was staring at him, as well as a man standing in the doorway wearing a British military uniform, a tan beret on his head. John sighed, grabbing his rifle and jumping down off of the top bunk, grabbing his backpack at the foot of the bottom bunk. He felt dozens of eyeballs following his every move.

"Just a nightmare, fellas," Haymaker called out, "We've all been there." John inwardly sighed, reminding himself to thank him when he had the time.

He stopped walking in front of the British soldier, making sure to salute.

"Private First Class... John Washington, reporting," He said. He rolled his blue eyes and waved his hand down.

"Fokk off with that shite," He said, in the same Scottish accent of the ghillie sniper from before. He otherwise saluted back. "Captain Fergus MacMillan, 22nd SAS Regiment." He dropped his hand, clasping both hands behind his back and nodding down the hallway. "Now, if ya would follow be. Monty needs a word with ya." He began walking down the hallway.

"Sir, permission to speak freely?" He asked. MacMillan sighed.

"Granted," He said, "But stop it with this formality shite!" John nodded in understanding.

"Who is Monty, and why does he need to see me?"

"Jillian Montagne is the leader of this cell," MacMillan explained, "And SHE needs to see because ya of yer claim." John cocked an eyebrow, but MacMillan sensed the question before it was spoken. "You claim to be from another fokkin dimension, do you not?" John shrugged his shoulders.

"More or less." They stopped in front of a set of double doors, and MacMillan turned and pointed a finger at him.

"If it was up ta me, you'd be in a loony bin," He said angrily, "With a cloth in ya gob and a straight jacket wrapped around your arse." His demeanor softened a little. "But there are six people that have confirmed this little story, saying you have evidence." He opened the door, letting John through first. "Hope ya brought it, yer gonna need it." John looked into the room and gulped nervously, walking in.

The CIC of the hidden underground rebel base reminded John a little of the first Star Wars movie, where the Rebels were held up in a space Mayan temple on a jungle moon. There was a large circular metal table with a map displaying the state of Ohio illuminated from the bottom, while several bulky consoles were beside the dirt walls, and a few electric generators were inside small cubbies inside the walls with cables that connected to every electronic in the room. Several guards stood around the room, all in the same modified M1 helmet and brown fatigues. A projector was on a small cart, connected to a computer behind the table.

Around the large table were several individuals, one of which John recognized as Sully. He was out of this SS uniform and into more comfortable-looking Woodland combat fatigues, his American bandanna tied around his bicep. He looked a little worried, which worried John. He stood next to a woman with a blue jacket and stunning platinum hair. The three looked up to them upon their arrival. MacMillan saluted, prompting John to do the same.

"Reporting as ordered with VIP, ma'am," He said, falling into parade rest. The woman waved him off with a small smile.

"Formality isn't necessary, Fergus," She said with a high class accent. Her smile fell instantly as she laid eyes on John. John straightened his posture, sweat sliding down his face. "You, however, have a lot of explaining to do."

"I've told you everything that you need to know, ma'am," Sully said, also looking nervous, "Washington has solid evidence to make his case." Montagne looked back to John.

"And where you that be?" She asked. John took off his bag and placed it on the table, rummaging through it. He pulled out a small laptop, the charging dock and cable for it, and an extra shirt before pulling out his phone. He placed it on the tabletop and slid it across, Montagne grabbing it before it hit the dull, raised edges. She held it to her face, turning it over and running her finger over the screen.

"Touchscreen?" She asked, not caring for an answer. MacMillan walked over and took from her hands, feeling the surface until he pressed the home button. He nodded in astonishment."

"The Japs have a few prototypes like this," He said, "Not like this." He weighted it in his hands. "It's a bloody brick with a touchscreen." He slid it back across the table into John's hands. "Gonna take more than that ta convince me yer from somewhere that isn't here." Montagne, however, had a different look on her face.

"Where did you get that?" She asked.

"In an Apple store in New York City," He said, "The same Apple that made the Macintosh." She nodded, but still wasn't entirely convinced. John almost gave up when he remembered a single he had taken several years ago when on leave.

"Anyone of you know who Obama is?"

* * *

 _"Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."_

 _"Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America."_

The applause fell on the deaf ears of the whole room, almost every occupant stunned into silence. They stared as Barack Obama shook hands with the people standing on the stage behind him, and only snapped out of their trances as John pulled his phone's charging cable out of the USB port, shutting off the video. He wondered if they were thinking about the 'American Republic' and its 2008 election, and how muc He coiled the cable up as Montagne lowered her hand from her mouth.

"My God," MacMillan muttered, "He's from another bloody dimension." Montagne took a deep breath to relax herself, then shot a look to the command staff still at their stations, staring dumbly at the projection screen. They immediately went back to work, seemingly disregarding the whole thing.

But if John remembered anything about base gossip, everyone would know he was from an entirely different dimension by dinner.

"Jonathon," Montagne said softly, redirecting his attention back to her, "I am so, so sorry." She put a hand on his arm. "I have contacts in the Republic, who can get you into a quiet life away from all of this. In the woods of Kentucky, in the bayous of Louisiana, or-" MacMillan put up a hand, silencing her. She stepped back as he walked slowly up to John, getting right in his face.

The room had fallen silence once, waiting for what the Captain was to say.

"Your world, as you knew it, is gone," He whispered, his deep voice falling on every ear in the room, "How far will you go to bring it back?" John clenched his jaw, and MacMillan saw an intense fire spark in the young man's blue eyes.

"As far as I need to," He whispered back, "Whatever the cost." MacMillan took a step back, satisfied with the answer.

"Monty, can ya give the boy some gear?" He asked her as the room once again restarted. Montagne slowly nodded.

"Yes, but why?"

"We're goin' on a trip." He gestured to John and began to walk out. John gave a respectful nod to Sully and Montagne as he left.

"Where, sir?" The door closed behind them as they walked down to the armory.

"Richmond, Indiana."

"What's there?"

"Radiation, but we're there for a bigger prize."

"We're there for the Chairman of Defense."

* * *

 **The Funders: By the 1980s, the West was beginning to collapse. France was in civil war, The Spanish were in complete isolation as the monarchy returned, West Germany was invading Austria in desperation for more resources against an East German war machine, Ireland was threatening war for Ulster, and the US public was beginning to turn against its government. While the British worked out their problems, the American government was hopeless to stop theirs.**

 **The upper class of society saw it, and many moved to pull their investments and interests out of the country before it collapsed. A few, however, still believed in the American Dream, and put billions of dollars into funding the founders of the American Rebel Alliance.**

 **The two main funders of the Alliance were Donald Trump, who almost single handedly funded the construction of dozens of underground bases all across the continental United States, Michael Bloomberg, who bought hundreds of thousands of firearms for the rebels, and both hired thousands of mercenaries to man the bases and use the guns, and eventually recruit others to the cause of reunifying America.**

 **As of December 23 2010, Michael Bloomberg was in a political prison, detained in 1998 for denouncing the American People's Commonwealth. Donald Trump was in Canada continuing his business, but said he would return to America if it "pulled itself together".**

 **The Founders: When the Dissolution was declared, and set off the Panic, the mercenaries that the Funders had hired hunkered down in their hidden fortifications to wait out the first few months. A select few, however, braved the anarchy to begin recruitment of the first fighters of the ARA, form convicts and criminals on the wrong side of a now forfeit law system, former active military personnel abandoned by their commanders, and simple civilians that wanted safety.**

 **While most of the mercenaries that first began rebel activities-known as the Founders-were dead by the turn of the Millennium, some of the men and women considered Founders were among the first wave of fresh blood. Jillian Montagne was the daughter of French refugees fleeing their civil war. After her parents were killed by roving death squads in Charlottesville, she was rescued by a Delta Force Operative known as Cruise. Together, they escaped into the countryside and into the arms of the North Carolina National Guard, today's 3rd American Rifles of the American Republic Armed Forces.**

 **Montagne and Cruise are now leaders in the American Rebel Alliance in the American People's Commonwealth.**

 **SAS: The Special Air Service is the premier special forces unit of the United Kingdom, founded in 1941 to fight in the deserts of Africa during World War II. It has since been used for behind the scenes and high profile operations in favor of NATO-and later British-interests across the globe, from the Middle East to America.**

 **In 2010, the SAS has expanded alongside the British Army. It has several full size regiments, numbering 21st through 26th with four full 64-man squadrons, along with several highly trained units that are completely off the records. DUe to its increased size, it has dipped in quality of its members, eventually being surpassed by Task Force [RETRACTED].**

 **Modern SAS operations mostly include the assistance of the insurgents of the American Rebel Alliance. The Ohio Cell is currently being helped by Captain Fergus MacMillan of the 22nd SAS Regiment.**


	4. Richmond

**January 29, 2011**

 **Before I left FOB Forest, Sully gave me this journal. He said it was a good coping mechanism-for the whole 'transportation to a new world' shit. He ain't wrong, but** **it'd definitely be nice to just have my story somewhere, you know? Besides, I could make this a book one day when this is all over. Millions of bucks, easy.**

 **We've been in Richmond, Indiana only a day, Mac's been setting up a fallback point in case our assassination mission goes south. There're about two platoons worth of rebels around the area as backup. He had us hoof it from Forest to here, which took about a month. I learned a lot from him on the way; he's been in the SAS for years. He won't tell me how long he's served with them (probably doesn't want to admit he's old), but I'd guess around two decades. Bare minimum.**

 **But it don't matter how old he is, he knows what he's doing. I've seen him take out two men 600 yards away with one shot. The dude's a prodigy in the art of marksmanship. He's been teaching me how to be a sniper; not a frontline marksman, but a miles-behind-enemy-lines sniper. How to camouflage your rifle, how to make a ghillie suit, how to gauge wind without instruments, how to hit a human head over a mile away-he's taught it to me in the rotting husks of abandoned towns from Point A to B.**

 **He says that Richmond was the center of some kind of nuclear power plant prototype in '84, but it malfunctioned somehow while the APC performed a safety test in '01. 50,000 people were evacuated, 1,000 of those dead in the weeks that followed. Hasn't been inhabited by humans since then. Radiation is still everywhere, hopefully we'll avoid the big pockets.**

 **Almost exactly like Pripyat. If you didn't count the fact that the ARA blew the top off the power plant a few days after everyone left. Well, everyone except the Army. From what I've been told, it's gonna be a preview of the nuclear post-apocalypse.**

 **We were given experimental anti-radiation pills for this operation by Montagne. The label is in a language I can't even identify. I think Polish. I don't want to know where she got it from.**

 **We've already set up a few vantage points in the different places this arms deal might take place. Mac said shoot to kill. This Greg Pason fucker won't know what hit him.**

* * *

"Oi, Jumpa!" John heard outside of his camouflaged blanket. He looked up to the blackness and heard rustling. "Patrol's coming in, we leave in 1." He nodded and looked back down to the journal he had propped up between his legs, a pencil in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

* * *

 **He keeps on calling me Jumper too, because I jumped dimensions. I've always heard that jet pilots don't choose their call signs, they get chosen for them. Special forces must be the same way. I better not complain, cause I heard you get a worst one if you do.**

* * *

He felt tapping on his head.

"Mission is a go," Macmillan said. John wordlessly nodded, getting up onto his knees and throwing off his camp blanket. He put his things into his backpack-covered in moss and tall grass-and threw it over his shoulders. He picked up his rifle-a heavily camoflauged M110 rifle- from the ground and pulled back the receiver and got up to a knee. He saw Macmillan crouched behind a fallen tree trunk, his M21 in his arms.

"Get down!" He exclaimed, falling down to his belly. John quickly followed suit, watching as a beam of light washed over the spot where his torso just was.

"I don't understand why we're out here," Someone said. The speaker peered over the tree trunk, and Jihn caught a glimpse of a Russian-made helmet on top of a black man's head. He swivels his light down, and John closed his eyes so they wouldn't gleem and twitch if they were caught in the spotlight. "Trudging through a forest like a couple of fuckin' retarded hunters."

"Trudy said she saw somethin' out 'ere," Another man said with a heavy Bostonian accent, "And Pason don't want any nasty supises, kapeesh?"

"Yeah, yeah," He grumbled, turning away from their position. He put away the flashlight and pressed a button on the radio on his shoulder. "Captain, this is Peterson, Sector 2 is clear. Tell Trudy she's seeing ghosts."

"Goddamn right," MacMillan mumbled, John able to hear him from the radio in his ear. He smirked under his earth-colored mask. He raised a grass-covered arm and gestured behind him, to John's left. "Alright, let's get a move on." He spun on his heel and began crouch walking around the log, waiting for John to follow.

John copied his crouch walk, staying close to Macmillan's back as they went down the small hill and into the outskirts of a town.

The streets were covered in various kinds of overgrowth, while the few homes around were shrouded in moss and vines. Several long vines were shooting through broken windows, the shards covering the ground.

John crouched down behind a collapsed one-story house, Macmillan doing the same in front of him. He poked his head around the corner for a moment, pulling it back a moment later.

"Patrol ahead," He whispered, indicating his eyes with two fingers and pointing them around the corner, "Three men, one has a dog."

"Rog'," John whispered. He peered behind him and into the large hole in the wall of the house. "Going in closer for a better look." He turned around and slowly climbed through the hole, into the small living room. He saw an old Sony television on a small but sturdy table facing a couch eaten through by mice, it's insides an incubator for bedbugs and cockroaches.

He pointed his rifle in the opening in a curtain of vines covering a shattered window, peering into the 10x scope. He saw, down the road, three armed men in average paramilitary wear; Harnesses and vests over hunter's jackets and camo tops, balaclavas covering their faces, and AKs cradled in their arms. John noted how mechanical the men's behavior was, their heads turning to look at their surroundings at the same time every few seconds. Their posture-as well as the manner they held their fire arms-was professional, much more than their garb suggested.

"Think these guys are professionals," John said over the radio.

"Aye," Mac whispered in a low voice. John recognized it as the man who took over his body when he was about to murder someone. Or multiple someones.

"SS?" His answer came as the neck of the German shepherd exploded in red in quick succession with his handler. The two others were quickly felled with a chest and headshot from John. Not a single shot echoed across the area.

"Check the bodies," Mac ordered before getting up from his position in a patch of long grass in the middle of the street to do it himself.

John quickly moved out of his position from the front door frame. The jogged over to the man he felled with a bullet to the heart, his Kevlar vest having done nothing to stop the rifle round. He felt for the man's pockets, eventually pulling out a wallet from his pants. His brow furrowed as he pulled a pair of dog tags out of the wallet, reading the words inscribed in the pieces of steel.

"It's in Russian," He muttered loud enough for Mac to hear. He tossed it over his shoulder and tore off the man's balaclava. He turned his head to look for any tattoos on his neck, finding a red star with a hammer and sickle on the left side of his neck.

"Un-bloody-fokkin-believable," Macmillan whispered, finding the same thing on the man he was checking over. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handheld satellite radio.

"Baseplate, this is Bravo Six," He said, distress in his voice. John unconsciously gripped his weapon tighter. "Do you read? Over."

" _Baseplate to Bravo Six, you better a damn good reason to break radio silence, over."_ John noted that the voice had more of an English accent than the Scottish one he'd become accustomed to.

"Baseplate, we confirm that Spetsnaz operators are acting as paramilitary security for the arms deal." There was a pause.

 _"Bravo Six, transmit your distress signal when the situation goes bad; We're gonna send in the cavalry to get you out of there. If the Russians are involved in this, there's no telling what's going to happen, and we can't risk you being discovered when the smoke clears. If could start a war we aren't prepared for with half the damn world."_

"Bravo Six copies all, out." He put away the radio and grabbed his rifle. "Stay frosty, Jumpa; We just entered the realm of extreme unpredictability."

* * *

John kicked in the door of the church, walking in quickly with Macmillan watching his back across the street. He raised his rifle and checked the rafters for any kind of surveillance cameras or hidden Russian ninjas. He checked both sides of the sanctuary and lowered his gaze back to his eye-level, taking a moment to marvel at the sad beauty of the damaged stained glass picture of Jesus Christ.

His concentration was broken when a body fell in front of him from the ceiling. He jumped and accidently fired his rifle, the silenced bullet hitting the dead body in the stomach.

"Alright there, Jumpa?" Macmillan asked over the radio. John grimaced underneath his mask, looking upwards to where the body had fallen from. He saw that the steeple had had turned into a heavily fortified-and hidden-sniper's nest, one that he had easily missed.

"Just scared the piss outta me, that's all," He reported, "The church's clear, by the way." Macmillan scoffed.

"Aye," He said, walking inside after dashing across the street, "Now it is." He kicked the body for emphasis, stepping over it and making his way to the back door. He hugged the wall between a broken window and the metal door, which was hanging desperately on only one hinge. John took position by the window. He peered out of it.

"We got about...300 meters of high grass from here to downtown," He reported, "If we can make it through there and over the highway, we can slip into downtown and set up a nest." Macmillan looked over his shoulder and gestured to his head, which was covered in a shroud of shrubbery.

"Aye, that's why I had us pack these," He commented. He turned his head back to the door and slowly opened it. The door cracked open, then fell off the hinge and slammed into the rocky ground with a loud thud. Macmillan stared at the fallen door for a moment before shrugging.

"Ah well," He muttered, hopping out of the door frame with a small crunch into the rocky ground a few feet below them, "Let's go." He made a dash to the grass a dozen yards away. John quickly did the same after checking to see if the coast was clear.

He dropped to his stomach in the tall grass right beside Macmillan. He paused, unsure of what to do, when Macmillan began slowly commando-crawling forward, his M21 tucked comfortably in his arms. He quickly copied the technique, unsure how long it would take them to get to the highway at their pace.

The crawl took the pair two hours, where they stopped at the edge of the grass right beside the highway, which John identified by a fallen sign as US Route 40. He grabbed Macmillan's arm when he began getting up. He was unable to voice his question when the reason zoomed across the road.

Three Humvees, two of the troop carrier variation and one with a .50 caliber machine gun on top. The gun was manned by a man garbed in the uniform of the APC Army. Next came two BTR-90s, with auto cannons placed on the top turrets. Macmillan's breath hitched as the last vehicle rumbled down the road, while John's heart stopped.

It was a T-90, with its large black bulk silhouetting against the setting sun. Its large 120mm cannon stuck out of its turret like a spike, almost acting like a pinnochio nose for the two glowing sensors on either side of it, looking like demented eyes.

"You gonna radio that in, sir?" John asked. Mac shook his head as they waited for any other vehicles.

"Aye, later," He muttered, getting up to a knee. He tapped John on the head and began sprinting to and across the highway. John cursed under his breath and got up quickly to follow him, careful not to slip in the small puddles in the pavement.

He dropped to a crouch behind Macmillan, keeping an eye on the road behind and path behind them. Mac was watching something through a pair of binoculars.

"Where to next, sir?" He asked, gripping his weapon nervously. A bad feeling suddenly seeped into his bones. Mac lowered his binoculars and nudged John with them.

John turned around and gasped softly. The sight of the city was terrifying, in a way. The lone skyscraper-about sixty stories high-had been cut in half, the top embedded in the ground like a dart and the sides arching down to the ground like a peeled banana. Mac whistled slowly.

"You Americans knew how to blow shit up," He commented. John took the binoculars and held them up to his eyes. He scanned the ruins until he saw a tattered American flag sticking out of a pile of rubble flying pitifully in a small breeze.

"Yeah," He muttered, "'Knew.'"

* * *

"Don't 'ou dare provoke it," Mac said, one hand on his gun and the other on John's chest. A few yards in front of them was a pack of wild dog, most of their fur gone in patches and stomached shrunk from starvation, chow down on a half eaten body of an APC soldier. One of the mongrels spit out a piece of the man's uniform before tearing a chunk of meat out of his bicep.

"Fuck that's disgusting," John let out as they slowly walked around them, making sure to not even look at them.

"Circle of life, lad," Mac told him as they ducked into the next building's doorway, the threat of the dogs now gone.

They creeped through several hallways, old propaganda posters made by the Commonwealth's Ministry of Morale peeling on the walls, speaking of building a great new country from the rubble of America. The bland construction and the disabled security cameras at around every corner told the two that the building was built after the Dissolution.

They snuck into another doorway, the exit to the large building. MacMillan led John, rifles and eyes both forward.

"Buildin' up ahead with a good vantage point of the deal," Mac said taking a knee and pulling out the container of the anti-rad pills. He pulled out his canteen and took one, handing the pills to John. "Keep it up, this's where the mission always goes wrong." They both stood up and John let his eyes wander to the right some, and it stopped him dead in his tracks.

In front of him was one of the large reactor domes, top cracked apart and thrown off by the ARA explosive. The damage of the blast that released the atomic energy barely a decade ago was still prominent. He saw the husks of dead APC men and women in the overgrown courtyard in front of the reactor, bones showing through rips in their MOPP gear.

He could almost hear the whispers of the dead, as if they're grisly irradiated deaths kept their bitter souls rooted to the earth for all eternity.

"Holy shit," He whispered, awe and terror rooting him in place. Mac turned around and saw John standing like a fool in the large radiation pocket. He got close enough to punch him in the shoulder.

"We're in ah pocket, ya dumbarse!" He exclaimed, "Let's go!" John shook his head, nodded and ran behind Mac as they both bolted out of the radiation pocket.

They stopped as they reached the building, breathing heavy but fine. John walked in first, sweeping the lobby as Mac closed the door behind them.

"One helluva way to test those pills," He said as he regained his breath. He turned around and poked John hard in the chest. "Don't let me catchin' ya doing somethin' stupid like tha' again, understood?" John nodded solemnly.

"yessir, sorry sir," He apologized, "Just...shook me, is all." Mac shrugged, checking to see if the coast one more time.

"It's war, lad," He said, "Both sides do some pretty nasty shit." John nodded, remembering bits and pieces from Afghanistan.

"I know that, just..." He sighed, making Mac stop as he was going up the stairs.

"I starting to wonder if there are good guys in this war."

* * *

John had wandered why Macmillan's pack was heavier than his. His answer came when he pulled out his backpack from underneath a web of shrubbery and leaves, a large part of a anti-materiel rifle strapped to the side. Unpacking, he pulled out the rest of the rifle, revealing it to be an M107.

"Jesus, sir," John, "You sniping a tank?" Mac shook his head.

"Just gotta make sure the fucka we're here to kill stays dead," He replied, loading the gun with a hefty magazine. He loaded a bullet in the chamber, and set up the tripod. He rested it on a piece of fallen concrete in front of a large hole in a wall facing a large courtyard a mile away from them. He laid down in the ground and patted the ground beside him, indicting to John that he should lay there.

"Now what?" John asked, laying belly down on the dirty concrete floor. Mac handed him a pair of binoculars while he took the rifle with its high powered scope.

"Now," Mac let out with a sigh, "We wait."

"How long?" Mac shrugged, uncovering a watch on his wrist amid the foliage and tapping it a few times.

"Eh, a couple-a days." Mac took off the shroud covering his face, and flashed John a shit-eating grin. John took off his own shroud and glanced back.

In the months since John had been placed under Mac's field command, he felt that he had begun to learn some of the Scotsman's expressions. This one meant that he had an amusing thought, bouncing in-between the methods of murder tucked inside his mind. 'Hopefully to help pass the time,' John thought.

"So, who's the latest lady to see yer cock?"

* * *

 **Richmond Nuclear Disaster: During the last few years of the United States' existence, the government began funding long lasting infastructure projects in hopes of benefiting the states that would come after it in case of complete collapse. One of the stages of the project was the construction of a dozen nuclear power plants in cities with heavy industry and population of over 50,000, the cities chosen by a raffle. Richmond, Indiana was home to a munitions factory that directly supplied the US Army, as well as several civilian manufacturing plants. The construction was almost completed when the government collapsed.**

 **The APC took over the final touches and managed it when it was completed, expanding the industry in the city. In 2001, the plant malfunctioned during a safety test. A large contingent of APC Army personnel were deployed to oversee the evacuations of the people as radiation blew westward, contaminating Midwestern crop fields and indirectly causing a continent-wide famine due to the irradiated food.**

 **Once most of the civilian population was gone, the ARA staged an attack on the city, jhoping to destroy a significant portion of the APC military. They planted large military-grade explosives in the plant and detonated them. The explosion killed everything within the city with the force of a small nuclear bomb, and contaminated the downtown area with deadly radiation. Since then, the area has beeen used for APC black ops training and criminal activities, including kidnapping and weapon dealing.**

 **Spetsnaz: The special forces of the Soviet Union, the Spetsnaz are among the premier operators on the planet. They are deployed all across the world with varying degrees of public knowledge to further the Kremlin's goals of a whole world united under communism. They are equipped with the best the communist world has to offer, and are usually the field testers for new weapons-platforms.**

 **Today, there are an unusually high amount of Spetsnaz operators deployed to North America. While it is said by the Russian government that most are there to "Train the American Communists to spread peace and Marxism throughout the land", it is speculated by British and American military strategists that they are stirring the pot that is the old US. What they would gain from it, they cannot determine.**


End file.
